


Perfect Harmony

by maeveth



Series: Melody and Harmony [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-01-19 06:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1459657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maeveth/pseuds/maeveth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Egbert is a freshman at a rather nice little university in the eastern United States.  His roommate is a musician, a member of the school's a cappella group, and rather disturbingly good-looking.</p><p>Shenanigans happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John: Move in.

**Author's Note:**

> So I saw Pitch Perfect, and it flashed me back to my collegiate days when I was actually hanging out with one of the a cappella groups at my university. They've won the ICCAs and gone to the finals more than once, so I was familiar with the format (the movie's depiction isn't accurate in the least). So I went 'hey, you know what, this could make a cool fic'. So here it is.
> 
> This has actually ended up being a crossover of sorts, but as the crossover characters are never actually named in this fic, I didn't post it as such. There will, however, be a B-side companion fic that focuses on the characters from the other fandom.
> 
> Dedicated to my dear SadisticSaint, without whom I probably wouldn't be writing at all.

“Goodbye, son! Don’t forget to write! Make sure you wear clean underwear and socks every day!”

Your name is John Egbert and your father is ungodly levels of embarrassing sometimes.

You are currently surveying the twelve-by-twelve space that they call a dorm room at this campus. It’s actually not too bad in size; plenty of room provided neither you or your roommate tries to bring their entire DVD collection or something. (You tried that. You had to leave two boxes’ worth of movies in the car for your father to take back home. You’ll swap them out over Christmas or something like that.) You have gotten all your things into the room, but you haven’t unpacked them yet, so you get going on that so you actually have somewhere to sleep tonight and something to use in the shower. Little necessities, and so forth.

It takes you several hours of organizing and unboxing and unfolding and hanging up and tacking and sorting and shelving before everything is the way you want it to be. Your precious Con Air and Ghostbusters posters are on the wall, your books are lined up on the shelf right above your bed, and your laptop is sitting on your desk. Your keyboard is tucked into a corner, out of the way of everything else. Your favorite green ghost sheets are on the bed, as are a half dozen pillows because there’s no such thing as too many pillows. Everything looks shipshape and in order, so you turn your attention to the other side of the room.

You have a roommate. You knew you’d have one, that was no surprise, but he apparently beat you to the school by at least a day because all his things are unpacked and set in order. He isn’t here so you take a moment to assess what you’re looking at, and try to determine what kind of person you’re going to be living with for the next nine months.

What is immediately obvious is that he lives, eats, and breathes music. It’s plain to see in the iPods on his desk (there are three – a Touch and two classics), in the turntables in the corner (it doesn’t look like they’re the newest tech out there, but they’re clearly well-used and well-cared-for), in the heap of sheet music half hanging off the shelf above his bed (now that’s an anomaly; you’d expect mixes and mashups from the first two elements, but a good three-quarters of that sheet music looks like it’s operatic). There are a number of other books that have nothing to do with music; mostly film and cinema-related, you note. That’s cool, you have a common interest. Also stacked on the desk is a pile of clothbound notebooks, surmounted by a clear plastic box that looks to be full of pens and ink bottles. The comforter on the bed is red with an orange gear pattern on it; the design matches one on a hoodie you can see in his closet. He looks like a sharp dresser.

He looks interesting, at least. Hopefully he’s someone who can be your friend! You’d love to have one on this campus.

It’s about then that you realize you haven’t eaten since breakfast, and your stomach gives an enormous growl. You sigh, and find your jacket so you can go down to the cafeteria and sample the wonderful cuisine the school has to offer. You find out that it’s fried chicken day and you never turn down a quality fried chicken, so you get yourself some fried bird and go to have a seat and devour your meal in peace. You have your side of the cafeteria to yourself for a while, but eventually a group of five or six bustles over and sit two or three tables away. You sigh, purely inwardly. You were enjoying your peace and quiet. It’s hard not to eavesdrop on them, though; they’re not exactly quiet. Eventually you sort out that they’re talking about some kind of mixer that’s apparently going on tonight. Mixers might be interesting. You definitely want to meet new people and mixers are there to meet new people, right? You listen in a little closer.

“…didn’t the Grey Ladies get pretty much gutted by graduation last year?”

“Yeah, they really needed this audition to fill them up again.”

“So is it true that the Blue Notes added a new member without even auditioning him?”

“Oh, yeah – some hotshot freshman tenor. I haven’t heard anything about him other than that, but apparently the kid sings like an angel and they couldn’t pass him up.”

“Freshman? Damn, he must be good for them to bypass the audition process on his behalf.”

“That’s what I hear, and he’ll be at the riff-off tonight.”

Riff-off? What in the name of little green apples is a riff-off?

“This is going to be a good one; I’m looking forward to it.”

You go back to paying attention to your chicken, frowning thoughtfully. Freshman tenor, hm? From what you gathered on your trip here last spring, freshmen are almost never part of any of the upper-level musical groups (you presume that’s what the Blue Notes are, based on the whole ‘tenor’ context) so this kid must be really special. You think it might be nice to meet another musician. You aren’t majoring in music, though you’d thought about it; you opted for engineering instead. However, it would be nice to meet fellow music lovers anyway. You eavesdrop for a little while longer, enough to determine that this “riff-off” is apparently tonight at eight in the atrium of the fine arts building, then finish your chicken and dispose of your things before heading back to your dorm room.

There’s still no sign of your roommate, but there are signs that he’s been and left again. The number of iPods on the table has dwindled from three to two, and the notebooks are in a different order than he left them. There’s a pen lying across one, and a bottle of ink sitting on top of another. That’s intriguing; you didn’t even know they made bottled pen ink anymore. You thought the world ran on ballpoint. Apparently not for this guy. This just makes you even more intrigued. You want to meet this person that you’ll be living with. He’s just getting even more interesting, and you haven’t even talked to him yet!

At eight you put aside the book you were perusing and get up, going to shrug into your coat and get your gloves. It’s a little nippy out there, so the extra layer is worth it. It doesn’t take you long to walk from your dorm to the fine arts building; it’s the one place on campus you remember from your visit. It’s a really nice building and interestingly laid out; the bottom two floors are underground, the third floor is the ‘main’ floor, but the fourth and fifth floors are open in the middle, creating a huge atrium with balconies. It makes a great place for large get-togethers, and the acoustics are fantastic. You learn soon enough that the second part of that is a large part of why the “riff-off” is being held here. There are probably sixty or so people milling around underneath you; you can see four major groups, but there are plenty of onlookers and hangers-on. You still don’t know what a riff-off is though.

That’s answered about five minutes later.

Some kid pipes up, welcoming everyone to the riff-off, and announcing that someone will be drawing for the first category. That “someone” comes up and shoves their hands in a sack, pulling a slip of paper out and announcing the theme is disco.

Huh?

Your confusion is answered a moment later when a girl steps up to the center of the atrium and starts singing Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love”. Just by herself. At least, she starts by herself. Then another voice comes in with a lower harmony. Then…drums? Are you hearing drums?

Holy shit, the school has an a cappella club.

Just as you’re starting to groove out a guy comes out of nowhere and cuts her off with a rousing rendition of “Y.M.C.A.”. She looks irked, but in that way where she’s not actually mad at all. The guys are animated and clearly enjoying what they’re doing. There are ten of them, you’d guess. Someone else cuts them off with an ABBA song, but the guys pretty much trump all when they bust out the Bee Gees and bring the house down with “Stayin’ Alive”. You listen in total fascination. You knew what a cappella was, naturally, but you didn’t realize it could be anything like this. It’s amazing.

The next category is “Legends of Rock”. Wow that’s broad. But that leaves a lot of leeway to do a lot of things, and some of these groups are going to take full advantage of it. Some guy launches into “Layla”, and you have to give him credit for having the balls to do that without a guitar. (Although the fact that there’s a guy actually making guitar noises with his mouth doing the requisite part is thoroughly impressive.) One of the girls gets all up in his face with some Journey, and is shot down a moment later by another girl wielding the power of the Rolling Stones. Then she’s shot down with…

…huh.

It takes you a second to hear what the guy is singing; after a moment you can identify it as U2’s “Pride”. You figure he’s going to get cut off soon enough until suddenly the chorus hits and you’re left there staring in awe as his voice takes off like a rocket, soaring up to those high notes effortlessly. You have never in your life heard a voice like that before. It occurs to you that this might be the mystery tenor the folks in the cafeteria were talking about, and you take a moment to scrutinize him more closely.

At some point you formed the opinion that truly gifted people were always fairly ordinary-looking. You have to revise that. This guy is definitely not ordinary. Blond hair so pale it’s almost white, equally-pale skin dusted with freckles. Tall…definitely tall, you can tell he’s got some inches on the guys standing around him. Thin but in that way that tells you he’s probably all muscle. He probably has an iPod in his hoodie pocket, you can see the earbuds trailing out of it to drape over his shoulder. Nice dresser, in that polished-casual way. You can’t see what color his eyes are; they’re hidden by a pair of black aviator sunglasses. This makes no sense to you at all. It’s night, it’s indoors, why in hell is he wearing sunglasses? Puzzle.

Then you squeak as he tilts his head up, and you swear to god he’s making eye contact with you even though you can’t see past his shades. One of his eyebrows arches slightly, then his lips quirk in a faint smirk before he goes back to his singing. You stand there dumbly as the song finishes up to a round of applause; the clapping startles you out of your daze, and you take advantage of the distraction to weasel your way out of the crowds and put your feet on the path taking you back to your room. You observe that your roommate still hasn’t come back and sigh as you go to get your shower things. He has to come home eventually, right?

He still hasn’t come home by the time you’re done with your shower and in your pajamas. It’s disappointing, really. You really wanted to meet him. You read a book for a while, then finally turn the light off and lay down, frowning to yourself. You’ll meet him tomorrow for sure.

You’re almost asleep when the door opens, very quietly. Someone slips into the room, fusses with the things on the desk, then fusses with the things in the closet before slipping out again. You blink and sit up, yawning as you go to turn on the desk lamp. You see the iPods have gone back to being three. He probably just went down the hall to take a shower. You turn the light back off and lay down. Sure enough, a few minutes later the door opens again and you can smell shampoo and soap. Thank god, he doesn’t use that Axe stuff. That drives your sinuses crazy. You can hear him moving around and putting things away, and then it dawns on you that he’s humming, very softly, under his breath. You can’t place exactly what the song is at first, but after a few seconds you’re able to identify it as “Pride”. Hm. That seems a little too coincidental to be for real. You open your eyes, but then decide that your exhaustion is overwhelming your curiosity. It’s been a long, tiring day after all, and there would certainly be other days to meet your roommate. You let your curiosity slip away, and sink into a dreamless slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The building's design is a direct rip from the Harris Fine Arts Center at Brigham Young University. I spent a good five years of my life in that building.


	2. John: Meet your roommate (and his brother).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John meets the second Strider and realizes this family is seriously different.

You wake at nine the next morning, and open your eyes to find that you’re already alone in the room despite it being ungodly early and not even the start of classes yet. You yawn, stretch and sit up, looking over at your desk. In addition to the nonsense that you piled there the previous day there’s a sheet of bright white lined paper, folded in half. Curious, you put your glasses on and pick it up and unfold it. It’s in bright red ink that shades here and there…this wasn’t written with your average ballpoint pen.

so i saw you were asleep and didnt want to wake you

anyway i apologize if i woke you up last night i didnt mean to

if you want to talk we can chat after noon ive got practices and shit til then

ttyl

ds

Apparently punctuation is not his strong suit.

You fold the note and slip it into one of your books before going to pull some clothes on. You have things to do too, go check out the engineering building, make sure you get everything you need before classes start on Monday. You figure you can do all that stuff before noon and then be back in time to meet up with your phantom roommate, this DS character. You toss on a sweater and jeans and rake a comb through your hair with limited results. Thus dressed, you head onto campus to take care of your business.

The engineering building doesn’t feel like an engineering building. It doesn’t have the sterile industrial feel that you might expect from something like that; instead it’s homey, lived-in, comfortable. The kind of place you wouldn’t mind kicking back and relaxing in while you study. You can already tell you’ll be spending a fair number of your hours here. You make your way up to the advisement office, where you find yourself waiting along with a guy who looks way, way too old to be a student; you’d guess he’s late-thirties, maybe forty. You sure wouldn’t want to piss this guy off though, he looks like he could break you in half with his pinky finger. Polo shirt and baseball hat and funky pointy shades…who the hell was this guy? Maybe he had come back to school for a second degree.

Your question is answered a moment later when a harried-looking young man pops out of a door with a handful of papers. “Sorry, Dr. Strider, we didn’t mean to make you wait for your class lists. Here, I hope we got everything all right in there.”

The guy is a _professor?_

Apparently, since he takes the papers and looks them over, adjusting the brim of his baseball cap. “This’ll do. Thanks.” He stands up as the frazzled fellow disappears behind the door, then looks over at you. A slight smirk plays around the corners of his lips as you turn an interesting shade of red. “Don’t look so embarrassed, kid, everyone reacts that way when they see me first. What’s your field?”

It takes you a second to respond. “Ah…electrical engineering. I want to do alternative sources of energy.”

“Alternative energy sources, wave of the future or some shit. Best of luck with that. I’m Dr. Dirk Strider, adjunct professor of robotics.” He inclines his head briefly before taking himself out and you just kind of sit there like a damn idiot for a moment before you realize that the advisor is calling your name. You break out of your trance and scramble to catch up with her.

You’re laden down with books and supplies and schedules by the time you drag yourself back to your dorm room. It doesn’t even occur to you that your room might not be empty until you’ve already kind of thumped into the door and shoved it open. As it turns out, your room isn’t empty at all; your elusive roommate has returned, and..

…well.

He turns and you instantly recognize the platinum hair, the pale skin, and the telltale black aviators from the night before. “Dude. The fuck did you do, buy half the bookstore?” There’s a rich sort of rolling tone to his voice, a Southern accent that manages to sound refined despite his choice of language.

You turn red. “I’ll have you know this is all required reading material!”

He snorts. “They tell you that just to get more of your money. You watch, half those books you’ll never open. My bro makes his students buy extraneous shit just to see if they’ll do it.”

You blink cluelessly. “Your bro?”

“My brother is a professor here.” He finally inclines his head. “Name’s Strider. Dave Strider.”

“John Egbert,” you answer mechanically before blinking. “Hey, does your brother teach in the robotics department? I think I met him earlier!”

You can’t see if he rolls his eyes or not but you get the feeling that he is. “Yeah, everyone knows Bro. If you have anything to do with this campus you know Bro. It’s the way shit rolls around here…” He trails off into silence and you realize he’s scrutinizing you very closely through his sunglasses. After a moment his lips quirk in a smirk you’ve already seen several times. “I remember where I’ve seen you now. At the riff-off. You came to listen.”

“What?” is your incredibly intelligent response. You regroup a moment later. “Oh! Uh, yeah. I heard about it and it sounded interesting, so I figured I would go see what it was and everything. You have an amazing voice.”

He chuckles, very softly. “Thanks. It ain’t much but it has its uses. Oh, I have kinda a habit of humming while I do my homework…if it bugs you tell me to shut the fuck up and I will.” He pauses again, then looks at your side of the room. “So that keyboard for show or you any good on it?”

You huff a little bit. “I’ve been playing since I was five. My father taught me how. I almost majored in music but he said I should pick something that will pay the bills.”

Dave barks a laugh at that one. “Never say that to a music major, dude. Don’t puncture our reality bubbles by pointing out that we’re going into a totally fruitless field. Oh well, I’ma be a fuckin’ superstar somehow or other. You watch.”

Oddly enough, you believe him.

He helps you with your plethora of books, making a few choice comments about some of your professors (“Oh god yeah, Dr. Southworth is constantly slipping my bro naughty pictures. She totally wants to fuck him and he doesn’t do desperate fifty-year-old women”) while he does so. Eventually everything is sorted out and by then it’s dinnertime, and you head down to the cafeteria together. This is when you learn that Dave can shift more food than you can, and that’s impressive. You also learn he likes chocolate cake, and apple juice.

You settle down to eat and make it maybe a quarter of the way through your meal when some girl comes up and practically drapes on Dave out of nowhere. You stare in surprise. He just sighs. “Rezi, for fuck’s sake, I’m eating here.”

She cackles and pulls herself upright. “Well excuse me, Dave, I thought you’d be happy to see me. You know you missed me this summer.”

“Yeah yeah, I missed you, can I eat now? I promised I’d call you when I got a moment and I just haven’t gotten a moment yet.”

You realize after a bit that “Rezi” is also wearing sunglasses – but the cane in her hand says that she’s doing it because she’s blind. You suspect Dave does it because he thinks it’s cool.

After a few more exchanges Rezi leaves, chuckling under her breath. Dave just sighs. “Sorry about that. Terezi has been on me to call her ever since I moved into the dorms. ‘Now that I’m out on my own and free’, or some bullshit like that.”

“Is that your girlfriend then?” you ask, ignoring the very odd plummeting feeling in your stomach.

Dave shakes his head slightly, to your immense relief. “No. Ex-girlfriend.”

For some reason that also makes your stomach plummet.

“We dated for a while in high school. She’s still one of my best friends, even if she’s a little…hands-on.” He pokes at a piece of pasta with his plastic fork while he talks. You try to evaluate that bizarre feeling and figure out just what it is and why you had it. It doesn’t make sense; what about that whole exchange would make your stomach do weird things? You don’t get it.

You finish your meal and take your trays over to turn them in, then start to head back to your dorm room. “I’m gonna be going out tonight, and I’ll be back late; I’ll try not to wake you up, okay?” he says as you walk.

You blink at him cluelessly. “Where are you going?”

He shrugs. “The Notes have a thing. I’m probably not gonna be around much in the evenings, between recitals and rehearsals and shit for the group and so forth. So I guess that means you get plenty of peace and quiet.”

You find yourself obscurely disappointed. “Oh, I’ll manage, I think.”

He smirks and rummages through his pockets to find his dorm room key. “I’ll tell you when concerts are and shit. If you wanna come, I mean.” He opens the door and goes to grab something out of his closet before ducking back out and leaving you standing in the middle of the room, looking blank.

So. Your roommate is popular, talented, intelligent, all that stuff that really amazing people ought to be. He’s also good-looking.

Very good-looking.

Good-looking to the point where you’re trying to figure out why your brain specifically pointed out that he was good-looking. It’s not like you’re a homosexual or anything, so why would you have that thought?

You sigh, and decide to spend some time with your laptop and a quality movie. That usually clears your mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I haven't figured out formatting yet.
> 
> I enjoy the idea of professor!Bro. I would totally take every class he ever taught and I don't know shit about robotics.


	3. John: get cultured.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John finds out his roommate can sing opera.

Two months on campus have finally acclimated you to its foibles and hazards. You’ve learned the shortcuts that will get you to the engineering building and back in between your other classes without being late for anything. You find out that Dave was indeed right; you haven’t touched half the books you bought. Perversely, this makes you rather annoyed with him. You’ve discovered that Dave has this incredibly annoying tendency to be very very right all the time, and sometimes it makes you want to smack the aviators off that pretty face of his.

Whoops. There’s that thought again.

You have that thought at least once a day, and lately it’s been coupled with thoughts about how talented he is, how intelligent. You’ve learned that he holds down a 3.9 GPA while taking advanced classes and having the Notes to rehearse for, as well as whatever else he does with the music department. Somehow he does this while still retaining enough social standing that he’s gone most nights. It’s like you never see him unless you happen to be in the room at exactly the right time during the day. You find yourself both disappointed and relieved – disappointed that he’s not around more, relieved that you don’t have to face this tangled knot of feels that you’re coping with.

You come into the room one day around lunchtime to find him staring at something in his closet. When you come further into the room you realize that it’s a tuxedo. He glances over his shoulder and nods at you before looking back at the thing. “I fucking hate tuxes but I can’t fucking get out of wearing them sometimes,” he says with a grumble. “Which reminds me. You busy tonight?”

You blink. You’re never busy, you have no social life at all. “Uh. No. Why?”

“I got a recital. Want to come?”

You are instantly of two minds about this. On the one hand, you want to hear Dave sing. On the other hand, you have the sickening suspicion he’s going to be surrounded by hangers-on and girls demanding his attention and things like that and you’re not sure you want to see it. The desire to hear him sing wins. “Sure, that sounds awesome. Do I need to dress up?”

He shrugs. “Not really, though generally slacks are preferred over jeans. Not like they’ll kick you out if you wear jeans though. It’s a group recital, everyone in my vocal class. So you might be forced to sit through a few people before I sing. Fair warning.”

You figure you can cope.

Seven o’clock rolls around and you’ve changed into a pair of dockers and a collared shirt. You figure that qualifies as not-jeans but not-overly-dressy. Dave left half an hour ago, since apparently he had to be there early to meet up with his class. You’re left to walk to the fine arts building alone and slip into the recital hall as unseen as you can be.

The hall is pretty good-sized, but it’s not massive. There’s really no such thing as a bad seat, and there’s no charge to get into the recital. You slip in and sit near the back, out of the way of most everyone else. You’re just in time to see the first student perform. She’s…decent, you guess. Not spectacular. About what’s expected for a first-year college vocal student. In high school she would have been fairly good. Two more students pass; you do give a hearty round of applause to one girl who nails Puccini’s “Quando m’en vo” really beautifully. Then you see Dave walk onto the stage. He’s actually taken the aviators off, but you can’t see what color his eyes are from where you’re sitting. You can tell they’re dark. He’s even handsomer without them, if that’s even possible. 

Then he starts singing, and your heart stops.

He announces the aria as “La donna e mobile”, and you resolve to look that up as soon as you get home. You don’t speak a lick of Italian so you have no idea what he’s singing about, but holy shit. He sings like an angel. He’s far above anyone who came before him, so far above that they might as well be on a different planet. It’s mesmerizing. He’s so animated when he sings, too; he feels the song, lives the song, and makes his audience live it right along with him. He’d be spectacular on the stage. You have to wonder if the college puts on operas or musicals or something like that.

All too soon, the song ends, and you find yourself on your feet applauding. You aren’t the only one; he’s the one student this evening who’s warranted a standing ovation. He takes a bow, then lets his eyes sweep the crowd. They stop on you, linger there for a moment, before his lips quirk just a touch and his head inclines. It’s a silent thank you for coming. You know it for what it is. It makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

The rest of the recital is uneventful. A lot of student vocalists, really nothing to write home about. Nothing inspiring, not the way Dave is inspiring. Soon enough it’s over, and people are filing out…except for the little knot of people waiting for Dave to get done. The second he comes into sight – aviators back in place -- he’s swamped under adoring fans, and there are at least two girls hanging off him. Maybe more, you don’t stay around to check. You just slip out of there and head home, oblivious to the fact that dark eyes are looking after you as you go.

It’s several hours later before Dave gets back to the dorm room. By that time you’ve done all your homework, eaten dinner, showered, and are in bed with a book. You look up when the door opens, then nod noncommittally. “Good job tonight.”

“You liked it?” If you didn’t know better you would swear there was just a touch of eagerness in his voice.

“Yeah, it was really good. You have a really good voice.” You’re trying not to show your real levels of enthusiasm.

Dave smirks just a tiny bit. “Thanks. I’m glad you came. I wish you would have stuck around for a bit though, I wanted to talk to you.”

You shrug, trying to stay casual. “You looked like you were busy.”

You can’t see him roll his eyes but you’re positive that’s what he’s doing. “I’d ditch them for you, don’t worry about that.” Before you can really fathom the implications of that statement – which you can’t, since they don’t make sense to you right now – he’s turning back to his closet and starting to get out of his tux. Your initial impression of him is totally confirmed; he’s thin, but there is not an ounce on him that isn’t whipcord muscle. You decide you don’t want to piss him off.

Then you catch a glint of something in his closet and you blink. “Is that a sword?” 

“Huh? Oh.” Dave looks into his closet, then pulls out a very nice katana. “Yeah. Bro and I strife regularly, it’s how we both keep in shape. He’s better than I am, but he’s also twice my age which has something to do with it. I’ll beat him one day.” He puts the sword back.

You can’t help yourself. “Is that thing sharp?” There’s no way they fight with live steel, is there?

He smirks. “Oh yeah it is, sharp as anything. Striders don’t half-ass shit when it comes to strife.”

Hopefully his brother isn’t inclined to run him through or anything.

Before you can say anything he’s wrapped himself in a bathrobe, shouldering his shower caddy. “Be back in a bit, dude, I really need a shower.” Just like that he’s gone, and you’re left alone with your rather jumbled thoughts.

Idly, you wonder if Dave is always going to leave your thoughts so jumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I duplicate the recital hall I spent three years managing in college.


	4. John: Boggle.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the ICCA quarterfinals happen.

“You have to clear Saturday.”

You look up at where Dave has been studiously messing around with something or other involving mixing equipment and his computer. He’s been doing that all afternoon, and you didn’t want to interrupt because it looked like he was completely into the creation of something or other and one did not interrupt creative throes. Evidently he’s more aware of his surroundings than you thought he was. The comment, however, is a total non sequitur. You wrinkle your brows up in confusion. “Saturday? Why Saturday?”

He finally turns away from his screen and pulls his headphones down to let them rest around his neck. “ICCA quarterfinals. They’re here on campus, so it’s not like there’s travel involved or anything like that. We’ve been practicing for this shit all semester.”

Now you’re even more confused. “ICCA?”

“International Championship of Collegiate A cappella,” he explains. “It’s kinda like the world series of a cappella shit. It’s a big deal, we plan for it every year and we compete our brains out. We’re gonna win the whole fucker this year; not letting some stuck-up assholes from Berklee or goody two-shoes from BYU get in our way.”

“That sounds…competitive,” you say, well aware of how incredibly stupid that statement sounds.

Dave snorts. “Bigtime. We take this shit way seriously. And you just…well, you gotta see this. I think you’ll like it.”

You have yet to figure out why Dave wants you so involved in what he does. You figure he’s just being a good roommate and taking pity on the poor guy with no friends and no social life. “I wasn’t doing anything on Saturday so I’ll come, it sounds fun.”

He looks very satisfied with himself. “Oh it will be. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”  
You hope so.

~

Saturday rolls around and you pull yourself together; the competition apparently starts early in the evening so you head on over there. You don’t know what time Dave is performing, so you figure you should get there early enough that you don’t miss him.

Getting there early means you’re sitting through just about every group that performs. There’s a pretty wide spread of styles and skill levels. Over the course of an hour you’re treated to a male group with a lot of energy and a female group that has you yawning and nodding off. You hope they don’t go on, that was seriously boring shit. It takes you a moment to realize that the Blue Notes just got called, and the raucous tumble of humanity taking the stage gets you to pay attention.

It’s…the set is not what you expected. You were anticipating something kind of traditional sounding, not the Neon Trees. Dave isn’t singing lead on this one, but that’s fine; you’re free to watch him as part of the group, and the guy who is singing lead is his own brand of vocal hot shit so it’s all good. He’s so incredibly animated, and there isn’t a lick of self-consciousness anywhere in him; he’s all red hair, orange headphones, and pure energy. It’s amazing to watch, it really is. The song concludes to thunderous applause, yours included; you like the Neon Trees, and they did the group justice. (You make a note to figure out who the redheaded guy who sang lead was. There’s some guy a couple seats over who looked just riveted on the whole thing. Maybe he knows.) Their second number has you looking completely blank. It’s not that you don’t like the song, it’s that you’ve never heard it before, and you thought you were pretty musically educated. Something about a hole in someone’s heart. Nice tight harmonies and a groove though. You resolve to look it up once the song ends and everyone starts clapping again. There’s a brief pause, and then they swing into their third number and the second you hear them start you’re staring in disbelief. There is no way. There is no fucking way they are doing this. There is no way you are hearing them do _Macklemore_.

You’re more than familiar with the guy, he’s from Seattle, but still. You are hearing them start into Thrift Shop. You have no idea how they’re going to pull this one off since it’s not exactly the sort of thing you hear an a cappella group doing but…

…oh my god he _raps_.

Your brain goes numb for a moment as Dave takes center stage, not to sing, but to pull off a blistering rap solo that has you staring in awe. How did you not know he could rap? Then again, you really know very little about your roommate. Now you know something else. You’re stunned. The crowd goes totally insane at the end of the number, and he basks in the deserved applause. You add yours to it after a second of processing. The group tumbles down into the audience and right past where you’re sitting. You don’t realize you’ve been spotted until a long arm snakes out to snag your wrist. With a squawk of surprise you’re yanked out of your chair and dragged along for the ride.

Once at the seats reserved for competitors, Dave smirks. “Thought I wouldn’t see you there, huh?”

“Well, it wasn’t like I was obvious,” you protest weakly.

“Bullshit, I knew where you were as soon as we hit the stage.” There are implications there that you’re missing. “So what did you think?”

You blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “I can’t believe you had the balls to do Thrift Shop.”

He smirks just a little bit more. “Gotta take chances and go with the flow if you wanna win this shit. Seems like people liked it though.” He forestalls any further conversation by yanking you down into the seat next to him so you can watch the rest of the competition. There are some really good groups, no denying that, but nobody has the combination of energy and talent that the Blue Notes boast. It gets more and more obvious as the day goes on that they’re in a league of their own, national class. These guys have no limits. Throughout the competition Dave is constantly delivering little asides and commentaries, and you’re hard-pressed not to laugh out loud and disrupt everything, especially when the redheaded guy – who’s sitting on Dave’s other side – starts adding in his own pearls of wisdom. Among other things, it seems Dave has a wickedly pointed sense of humor.

The more you learn, the more you like this guy.

The competition wraps up and the winners are announced, and to nobody’s surprise at all the Blue Notes win, giving them a trip straight to the regional semifinals. You hang out for a moment, then sigh when you see that Dave is again being deluged in female attention. Figures. At least he was nice to you and spent some time with you. You turn to go, then stop when you hear your name. You turn around in time to see Dave detach himself from his flock and come up to you, frowning. “Aren’t you going to hang around?”

You shake your head and muster up a smile. “No, that’s okay, you’re busy. I understand!”

He frowns even more. “I thought I made it pretty clear that I want you around.”

Your stomach does a flipflop. “You want me to hang out?”

Dave shrugs. “Well, yeah. I’d rather hang out with you than all of them.” He jerks his head in the direction of his crowd of fawning admirers. “I mean, if you don’t wanna hang out, that’s cool, I’m not gonna force you. But I’d like it if you stayed.”

You cannot believe this. “I’m not gonna annoy anyone?”

Again, that feeling that he’s rolling his eyes despite it being invisible. “If you do, fuck ‘em. Come on, we’re gonna get ice cream.”

Just like that, you find yourself piled into a Cold Stone, the giant group taking up every available seat. You, however, are getting increasingly uncomfortable. There’s a girl sitting next to Dave, and her attention is obviously riveted solely on him. He’s chatting with her comfortably, and your stomach is sinking further and further for reasons you can’t even explain. Dave has a girlfriend. No other way of interpreting that. But it’s making you sick, and you can’t even begin to tell why. So you quietly finish your ice cream, getting up to toss the cup. You don’t notice that Dave uses that as his cue to detach himself from the group. “You ready to go?”

You blink. “Uh, yeah, but I know you’re not so I don’t want to make you leave early…”

He shrugs. “It’s getting late and I got class at eight in the morning. It’s as good a time to leave as any.” Before you can protest he’s waving to the group. “Sorry, dudes, I gotta bail, got class in the morning. We out.” There’s a pout from the girl but everyone else waves like it’s no big deal. Dave ushers you out of the shop and down to his car. It’s not exactly amazing wheels material, but it runs. He says it’s ironic.

“I’m sorry, I really didn’t want to pull you away from your girlfriend so early,” you say contritely once you’re in the car and the doors are closed.

You are the recipient of a very, very strange look. “…dude. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You blink. “Then who was that girl you were so interested in?”

Dave snorts. “She’s a groupie, she follows me everywhere and it’s fucking annoying. But I’m a nice guy, so I don’t tell her to fuck off. She takes it as encouragement.”

Your stomach lifts somewhat. “Oh. I thought for sure you’d have a girlfriend.”

The snicker you get is not the reaction you were expecting. “Why do you think that?”

You flounder. “Well, uh, I mean…you’re talented and popular and smart and good-looking, of course you’d have a girlfriend.”

Dave looks at you sidelong at the ‘good-looking’ comment. “I think you can take it as pretty much gospel that I’m not gonna have a girlfriend to get in the way.”

You are not sure how to take that.

It’s a short drive back to campus, but by the time you get there you’re both singing along to the Proclaimers at the top of your lungs. You’re pretty sure it’s an international requirement that when “500 Miles” comes on you absolutely must sing along, regardless of how bad your voice is. You pile out of the car, entirely entertained and in a fantastic mood. “Thanks for inviting me tonight.”

“Hey, any time, dude.” Dave glances at you, just looking at you for a moment before his lips quirk up at the edges. “It’s a standing invite. You want to come hang, you’re more than welcome.” That kind of gives you the warm fuzzies.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” You head into the room to grab your shower things, then go on down the hall to get cleaned up for bed. The sound of another shower going nearby tells you Dave probably did exactly the same thing you did.

Your hunch is confirmed when you hear his voice through the steam. “So you really liked the show?”

“I told you I did. It was a lot of fun, even if you did Macklemore.” You will never get over that.

He chuckles. “I’m glad. You want to make the bus trip with us to the regional semifinals?”

You pause. “What?”

“Oh, it’s a ways away so we’re bussing it. Want to come with us?”

You blink, and think about it. That’s an all-day commitment, but Dave is asking if you want to come. “I think I can do that so long as I’m free that day.”

“Sweet. Hope you can, it’s gonna be a hell of a ride and we’re gonna win the shit outta this.” You hear his shower shut off, then the rustling and so forth that comes along with someone drying off and getting into pajamas. You wait a couple of minutes, then shut your shower off and put yourself together. By the time you get back to the room Dave is already in bed, headphones on, book in his lap. He glances up when you come in. “I gotta get some reading done, if the light’s too much tell me and I’ll shut it off.” He pauses. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

You give him a completely genuine smile. “It was no problem, thank you for telling me. It was fun.”

He gives you a smile you can’t quite interpret, all the moreso since he’s still wearing the aviators. Just once you’d like him to take those off so you can see his eyes. You puzzle over the smile as you tell him goodnight, climb into bed, and curl up. You have every intention of trying to interpret that smile, but shortly after your head touches the pillow you lose all track of anything until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> Neon Trees -- "Everybody Talks"  
> Extreme -- "Hole Hearted" (I love this song)  
> Macklemore & Ryan Lewis -- "Thrift Shop"
> 
> Because the idea of a cappella Macklemore with Dave doing lead rap duties just makes me giggle like no tomorrow. Also lo, there's the other fandom rearing its head.
> 
> Incidentally, the "goody two-shoes from BYU" is Vocal Point. Go Youtube it. You'll thank me later.


	5. John: Witness rap battles and acquire a headache.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dr. Strider schools the hell out of his brother and John learns something he did not know.

The regional semifinals are a month after quarterfinals. In that month Dave is busier than he’s ever been, between intensive rehearsals, trying to keep up with homework, projects in a couple of his music classes, and being in the throes of creation himself. He’s been staying up until all hours of the night messing around with his turntables and his equipment, and from what you can see he’s very intent on whatever it is he’s doing. You don’t bother him. He’s clearly very busy, and you don’t want to interrupt him if he’s on a roll.

After a few days of virtual radio silence between the two of you he looks up from what he’s doing and abruptly thrusts the headphones at you, frowning. “Here. Listen.” Not knowing what else to do you get up, walking over to take the headphones and listen to whatever it is he wants you to hear.

It’s an interesting piece. It’s very experimental, all synths and heavy backbeat, and there’s a sort of odd melodic nature to it that ties the whole piece together. You find yourself really liking it. By the end of the track it’s obvious that Dave is waiting for your opinion, so you give it to him. “That’s really good, I really like it. Did you do that?”

He relaxes, and nods. “Yeah. Composition’s my thing. I can’t help it, I’ll hear shit that I want to mix and the ideas just come to me.” He pauses, and looks at you thoughtfully. “Hey, would you be willing to play stuff for me? I can play, but I’m nowhere near as good as you are.” You open your mouth to protest and he cuts you off. “I’ve heard you practicing, I know how good you are. You got my sorry ass beat. So what do you say?”

You don’t have to think about it long. Dave wants to include you. Not just in his social life, but in his music, and you think that’s the higher honor. “I’d love to, that’d be awesome.”

He grins, one of the few outright smiles you’ve gotten out of him. You’d love to see more. “Kickass. I’m working on something right now; I’ll get you sheet music when I’m done with it and you can fuck around with it and see if there’s anything you think needs changing.” He turns back to his work, putting his headphones on, and you have to smile. It’s nice to see him so absorbed, so enthralled by his passion. You don’t see that kind of dedication too often, and it’s fascinating to watch it in your roommate.

It’s another week and a half before he finishes what he was working on and comes out of his music-induced trance enough to become a regular human being again. You’re wandering through the music building en route to your English class when you hear the telltale sounds of the Notes practicing down in the atrium. You’re on the fourth floor so you’ve got a good view of the group as they work out the kinks of their semifinals set. Classes are getting out and there are a fair number of people starting to mill around while Dave starts working on another rap solo. Just as you’re settling in to listen you hear a low chuckle from behind you. The sound damn well near scares you over the railing, and you whirl to see Dr. Strider leaning against the wall. “He’s cute when he gets going, isn’t he?”

You have no idea how the hell to answer that so you just zip your trap. He smirks a little bit more and pushes away from the wall. “This is how it’s supposed to be done.” He walks over to the stairs, descending into the main atrium and heading to where the group is working…where he cuts Dave off with exactly the words he just used with you. And then, much to your shock, he…starts rapping.

Very, very well.

You are actually hearing a professor rap in the middle of the music building.

What.

The look on Dave’s face is a mixture of oh-my-god-bro-go-the-fuck-away and oh-my-god-my-bro-is-awesome. It’s obvious he worships at the feet of his older brother, that there’s nobody on the planet more important than him. Perversely, this makes you jealous. You stop thinking about your irrational jealousy, though, when Dave rips off a verse in answer to his brother’s, and you realize you’re watching a full-scale rap battle. It’s incredible to watch two people who are clearly very good at what they do going head to head, all out, take no prisoners. You watch in rapt fascination as rhymes go flying back and forth. From the way the other denizens of the music building are gathering around, you are definitely not the only one enthralled by the skirmish taking place below.

The battle goes on for a while before Dr. Strider emerges victorious and Dave is left licking his wounds in defeat. His brother compounds the insult to his pride by messing his hair up like he’s some kind of six-year-old sprout, then walks off. You have to chuckle at the petulant look on Dave’s face as he fixes his hair again. That’s about when he looks up and sees you standing there, and unaccountably blushes very slightly. That’s…not something you ever expected to see him do. Dave just doesn’t blush. Embarrassment is not in his vocabulary. He raises an inquiring eyebrow; you hold up your physics textbook by way of explanation. His expression sinks a bit before he nods; he’ll see you later. You wave before heading off to class, and it isn’t until you’re sitting down in your seat that you stop to ponder why he looked so disappointed that you couldn’t hang around.

It’s a few hours later when you catch up with him at your dorm room. He’s busy folding his laundry when you walk in; he turns, then smirks just a touch. “So I take it you saw Bro handing my verbal ass to me.”

You laugh in spite of yourself. “Yeah! It was a lot of fun to watch, I didn’t realize you both rapped.”

Dave chuckles softly. “Bro taught me how. Fuck, Bro taught me just about everything I know.” There’s that element of hero-worship in his voice, subtle, but there. 

You venture a question. “Your brother’s really important to you, isn’t he?”

Dave pauses and looks at you quietly, measuringly, from behind his aviators. “Bro’s almost all the family I have,” he explains after a moment. “He’s eighteen years older than me; apparently I was kind of an accident. Our parents died when I was about six months old, so he raised me and managed to finish college plus a masters plus a doctorate. He’s pretty much the only thing I’ve got in the world.”

You feel moved to protest. “But you’ve got friends!”

He chuckles, in a self-deprecating fashion. “I don’t have many good friends. Rezi, Tav, Gam, Rose. The dudes from the Notes. That’s about it. I got a bunch of people who want to hang around me to get the swag rubbed off on them, but that’s it.” He looks at you for a second. “And I got you. Don’t I?”

“Of course you do,” you hasten to assure him. “We’re bros, and you’re always gonna have me, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that, bro.” Dave reaches out to mess up your hair, which you protest and bat at his hands for. It seems like his fingers linger just a little longer in your hair than they usually do, but they slide free so quickly that you figure you must have been imagining it. When you look up he’s giving you a very peculiar look, a wistful little thing that’s gone the second he realizes you noticed. You try to figure it out, then give that up when you can’t come up with an answer in the first thirty seconds. 

He has Notes practice again, since semifinals are right around the corner, and he asks you if you want to come. You say sure, you can work on your homework and keep him company at the same time, and so the two of you trek to the music building. Notes rehearsals are kind of an open secret; there are plenty of hangers-on just sort of dawdling around waiting to play groupie to all the guys. You pick a spot where you can still hear but have some room to settle with your homework and start sorting through all the crap you have due this week in Biology. You’re not left there by yourself for too long, though; a clutch of gossiping girls settles down nearby, much to your chagrin. You’d been hoping to avoid distractions not named Dave.

You’re working on one of your many bio assignments when you hear Dave’s name mentioned by the gaggle. Without really thinking about it you lean in to see if you can eavesdrop on what they’re saying about your roommate.

“…so damn hot, will you look at him,” one girl sighs.

“You can think that all you want but it’s pointless,” another girl says, this one with a wry sort of knowitall tone to her voice. “You’ll never snag him.”

You blink, confused. Dave said he didn’t have a girlfriend, what do they mean that girl would never snag him?

“Awwww that’s mean, I’m not that bad, am I?” The girl pouts in what she probably thinks is an attractive fashion. It isn’t.

The second girl snorts. “You’re a chick, you fail immediately.”

You freeze solid. Was she implying that Dave…?

“No! Oh, tell me you’re joking, that’s just not fair!”

Second girl shakes her head. “Not joking at all. He apparently came out his senior year of high school. So, sorry. You have the wrong plumbing.”

The gossip goes on but your brain has buzzed itself into a circle. Dave is gay? How did you not notice? Then again to be fair unless it was some kind of major rainbow flag up your nose then you probably wouldn’t have noticed at all. But still. Your talented intelligent handsome roommate is gay.

For some reason this sends your brain into a tailspin that blanks out the rest of the rehearsal. It takes Dave waving his hand in front of your nose to snap you out of it, and you stare at him in stunned silence while he peers at you. “Dude. You okay? You were, like. On Mars or some shit.”

“Huh? Oh. Oh shit. Sorry. Are you done?” You start scrambling to gather your things together, cheeks flaming bright red as you corral your homework back into your messenger bag. By the time you straighten up, things in place, he’s watching you with that maddening smirk on his lips. Sometimes you want to smack him to make that go away. But only sometimes.

“Yeah, we got done a few minutes ago. I thought you would’ve noticed, but you were way the fuck off in Wonderland.” Dave waits for you to organize yourself before the two of you start for home, walking side by side through the darkness that has claimed campus at this point. It’s a peaceful evening, no raging frat parties going on, a good night to go walking across campus. “So what were you thinking about?”

Your subconscious engages your tongue without your brain having any say in the matter. “The girls near me were talking about you.”

Dave snorts, hands stuffed in his pockets as you amble along. “Oh yeah? What were they saying now? If it was talking about how fine my choice ass is, I mean, I’ve heard that one before.”

Inwardly you are screaming at yourself to stop. Your mouth, however, is not listening to this at all. “They said you were…that you liked…” John Egbert, you are a grown-ass man, you can say this shit. So why is it not coming out?

Dave eyes you sideways; you can see it in the way his head tips toward you. “I am what? I liked what? Gonna have to get more specific, Egbert.”

You silently wish your brain had more say in this since it might have meant you wouldn’t be in this pickle. “They said you…liked boys.”

“Uh, duh? Of course I like guys, I mean, I like you, and I like—oh, like THAT.” Dave makes a quiet noise; it takes a second for your frazzled brain to process that he’s snickering. “That shit gets around fast. I’m impressed. Figured it would’ve taken a few more months for that to make the rounds.”

You blink. “So…you do?”

He rolls his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Yeah, I’m gay.” He pauses and looks at you with uncharacteristic nervousness. “That isn’t like…an issue…is it?” You can tell he’s very unsure about this; he’s worried that you’ll end up being a homophobe, that you’ll hate him.

You hasten to reassure him. “No! No, it’s not an issue at all, why would it be? You’re my bro, it’s all good.” And it is.

You have some time to think about it when you’re in the shower, then more when you’re in bed. Dave falls asleep quickly, or at least that’s what his breathing suggests. You stay awake staring at the ceiling of your room for quite some time, trying to identify the blast of butterflies that you’d felt when you’d heard about Dave’s orientation. It makes no sense. Why would that excite you? You’re not a homosexual.

You’re straight.

You’ve had some disturbing thoughts about your roommate, though.

This is all making your head hurt something fierce.

You reach for the Tylenol in the top drawer of your desk without looking, managing to knock back a couple pills and wash it down with your water bottle. Existential crises are not good for your ability to sleep, function, or really do anything without a headache.

Maybe it’ll look better in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on, you know you want to see Dave and Bro rap-battle it out.


	6. John: Ride a bus.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the ICCA regional semifinals happen and John has an oh-shit moment.

It’s the day of regional semifinals, and you find yourself fidgeting in a seat three rows back in the auditorium. You couldn’t go backstage with everyone else; there were just too many people and not enough room. So here you are in your seat by yourself, trying to not be nervous. You’re not sure just what you’re nervous for, or maybe you’re just nervous in general. Nervous for Dave, because he sure didn’t show you any nerves on the bus. Then again, you’ve gathered that Dave is like that; he never shows his nerves. You have a feeling he’d tell you it was a sign of weakness. 

You’re fidgeting and blessing that nobody is sitting next to you when a hand comes down on your shoulder. You squeak in a most undignified manner, looking at the large leather-clad hand before following the arm it’s attached to up to see Dave’s bro smirking at you. “Don’t wet yourself, he’ll do fine. You seriously look like you’re going to go insane sitting there.”

Blink. “I didn’t know you came to Dave’s shows.”

Dr. Strider snorts. “I come to everything he’s ever done, and this is no exception. I’d be a pretty shitty bro if I didn’t come watch my little brother do his music thing.” Much to your chagrin he climbs over the row of seats to sit down next to you. You feel tiny next to his bulk. Dr. Strider is built like the proverbial mack truck and you do not want to piss him off ever. “So you’ve been coming to all his stuff too, huh?”

You fidget, then give the older man a smile. “Yeah, everything he tells me about. He’s really nice to me, and he wants me to come to all this stuff he does.”

Dr. Strider gives you a look you can’t quite interpret behind those pointy shades of his. “You know he’s never that involved with people, normally. He sees something special in you.” This makes you blush and flail a little bit.

“There’s nothing special about me, Dr. Strider,” you protest.

“Call me Bro,” the professor counters as he stretches out long legs, making himself comfortable. “And I know how my little brother works well enough to know that he must see something in you with the amount of attention he pays you.” You are so red you are rivaling Christmas. “Tell you what. You can come with me to Lincoln Center when the championships roll around.”

You splutter. “Lincoln Center? That’s New York City, that’s a long way!”

He shrugs. “So? They’re going, and he’s gonna want you there, so we might as well set it up now. I’ll get everything squared away for the trip, don’t worry.” There’s a soft chuckle from your other side; at some point someone else sat down a couple seats away on your other side, a tall slender young man with oddly silver hair. He must have gone grey early. You’re about to protest when the lights go down and the first group comes onstage. Your program says the Blue Notes are going third. The first group is another all-male group; you have to admit you like those sounds better. Something about that deep rich bass that a female voice just can’t produce gets you shivery all the way up and down your spine. It’s wonderful. This group is more traditional than the Notes, though, and you can’t help but think that you like the more experimental sound better. You applaud at the end of their set, and Dr. Strider looks at you with a raised eyebrow. “So what did you think?”

You are honest. “I like the Notes’ sound better. They sounded more…structured, and I like how the Notes are more experimental.”

He chuckles. “The Notes are a group founded on improvisation and it shows,” he observed. “I went to school with the original Blue Notes, back when I was an undergrad.”

You blink. “Were you a Blue Note?”

Dr. Strider laughs outright at that one. “No. I sound like a cat in heat when I try to sing.” The image makes you snicker as the second group comes onstage. This one is from your school, the Grey Ladies, and they’re good and you cheer but they’re just not the Notes. You may have to admit to yourself at some point here that you’re heavily biased in favor of the Notes, purely because Dave happens to be one of them.

It’s their turn now, and you don’t even realize you’re on the edge of your seat until a large hand pushes you back with a dry chuckle. “Steady, grasshopper,” Dr. Strider rumbles, much to your embarrassment. You can’t help but cheer when Dave comes onstage, though. You’re fairly sure he knows just where you are in the crowd, too.

You’re expecting the same set as before, maybe just more polished. You’re floored to realize that they’re doing an entirely new set, top to bottom. Apparently the Notes don’t ever let things get old; that would be boring. They apparently like to rip their stuff straight from the radio, because the first song is Bastille’s “Pompeii” and something about the way the male voices work together makes it some kind of special fucking awesome. The redhead is in his element, belting out that lead like there’s no tomorrow, and Dave is coming in when the high harmonies do. They sound awesome together. (You note that the silver-haired boy applauds louder than most.) The second track is Rob Thomas and that is excellent, you love you some Rob Thomas. The redhead stays forefront for this one, too, and you’re obscurely disappointed. Won’t Dave have a solo?

Of course he will, they were saving him for last and they unleash him on OneRepublic’s “Counting Stars”. You love this song, and it’s all you can do to keep from singing out loud along with him. Fortunately, you refrain. You’re a pianist, not a singer. Dave sounds fucking amazing, although you note that he seems to be looking in your direction on the chorus. That doesn’t quite make sense to you; it’s almost like he’s singing straight to you. But why would he do that?

The set finishes up to thunderous applause, and you and Dr. Strider add yours to the mix. The boys come down into the audience and Dave claims the seat on the other side of you, leaning over and eyeing his brother. “Has he been filling your head with stupid bullshit stories, John?” You hear Dr. Strider snort, but say nothing. There’s another group coming onstage, so you’re not surprised at the lack of commentary. As the group settles itself, though, you feel a hand covering yours and Dave’s lips close to your ear. “Did you like it? Did we sound okay?” 

You are very glad the lights are low enough to cover how red your face is. “Ah, yes…I loved it, you sounded great.” You stutter a little, but you get the whole thing out without too much trouble. You can feel him smile, and the hand covering yours slips away. You find yourself wanting it back, but you have no idea how to even approach that. Then you find yourself trying to figure out why you want it back. You’re not a homosexual, damn it, and holding hands with another guy in public is…well…it’s pretty gay. Dave has this way of confusing everything about you, even the most fundamental things that you thought you knew. You resolve to not think about it.

The other three groups are pretty much a formality; it’s a given that the Notes won their regional semi, and will be going to Lincoln Center to compete in the championships. As the cheering breaks up you get ready to head back to the bus with Dave; it’s a long drive to get back to campus. “Your brother’s really nice,” you comment, earning a snort.

“If it gets him something, sure….nah, I’m kidding. Bro’s a good guy. Demented, but a good guy.” You smile a touch to hear that hero worship again.

“You are such a fanboy for your brother,” you tease. 

He stares at you. “You did not just say that.”

You grin. “You are a total fanboy. Waving pompoms and everything, doing cheers, the works.”

Dave promptly gets you in a headlock and noogies you good and proper. “You take that back, John Egbert.”

Flailing and laughing, you manage to make it onto the bus in a thoroughly rumpled state. “Jerkass, watch the hair next time.”

Dave just snorts and settles down for the trip. You settle next to him, chatting comfortably for the first couple of hours, although eventually you quiet to look out the window. After a little while you feel a warm weight against your side, and you turn your head a bit to see what it is.

Dave has fallen asleep against you, head resting on your shoulder, leaning up against your side. It’s adorable. You smile and rest your cheek against his hair, eyes half-open, deriving a surprising amount of enjoyment from having him against you like this. There’s something about it that feels so completely right, so normal. It’s like having found ‘home’, although that doesn’t make much sense because you have a home. There’s something so right about this time, this moment. It makes you think that maybe this should be a thing that happens more often.

Your blood chills completely when you finally bring yourself to face the way your thoughts have been tending lately. You want Dave around all the time. You like having him this close. You think more about him than you do about yourself. Your reaction to hearing that he might have a girlfriend was…what was it? Jealousy? Depression? Something like that. You got butterflies when you found out he was gay.

You are not thinking of Dave as your roommate, or even as your friend. You are thinking of him as something very different, something more intimate.

You break out in a cold sweat when you realize this. This isn’t possible. This just is not possible. You’re straight. You are straight, you have always been straight, how can you be entertaining thoughts like this about your roommate? It’s not possible. And yet here you are with him cradled against your side, thinking how much you would love this to keep going, how much you would love to keep feeling like this. 

You may well be in love with your roommate.

You are fairly sure that the appropriate term for situations like this is “oh shit”.

You get back to the campus and gently nudge Dave to wake him up; he yawns and gives you a sleepy sweet sort of smile, the kind that you know is totally genuine because he’s too drowsy to put on an act. You get him back to your dorm room; he’s mostly coherent by the time you get there, thanks to chilly night air and having to walk from the fine arts building. “You are the best,” he pronounces with a sort of sleepy chuckle as he gets to his shower things and you do the same. “I have no idea what I ever did without you.”

“You probably would have let the bus roll on with you still on it, sleeping like the lazy ass you are,” you tease as you get your bathrobe. He throws a towel at you, which you dodge before heading down the hallway to the bathrooms. You are going to try and scrub your brain clean with shampoo and get all the disorderly thoughts out of your head so you can sleep tonight. A few moments after you start your shower you can hear another one going; you think it might be the one next to you. Dave clearly followed you down the hall. You don’t think much of it.

At least, you don’t think much of it until he starts singing.

It’s a more intimate type of sound, delivered in a place where the only ears to hear are yours, and you’re not sure if he’s doing it consciously or if it’s a singing-in-the-shower deal where he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Regardless of which it is, you find yourself quieting so you can listen. The song is U2 again, “With or Without You”. You love this song, and it takes on a poignant quality in Dave’s voice…like he’s singing about someone in particular, a sort of lost and lonely note that you’ve never heard before. He always sounds so self-confident, so much swagger, that you never stop to think that he might be lonely. Maybe he is. You quietly resolve to make sure he’s never lonely again. 

“I really do love your voice,” you say as you finish your shower and wrap up in your bathrobe. There’s some rustling from the other shower, then Dave emerges and you almost lose your jaw in surprise. He’s not wearing his shades. You can actually see his eyes clearly for the first time, and your impression of their color was totally false. You thought they were brown. They are bright, vivid blood red, like rubies or roses. You are totally mesmerized. He notices your regard and raises an eyebrow; your reaction is to blurt out your very first thought. “Oh my god your eyes are gorgeous.”

It is clearly not the reaction he was expecting. He blinks, then smiles, a faint but genuine smile. “…thanks. I thought you’d think they were freaky or some shit. Everyone else does.”

You make a negating motion with one hand. “Everyone else is a bag of jerkballs. They’re gorgeous. I wish you’d show them more often. Is that why you wear shades?”

He nods, gathering his things up. “Yeah. I don’t like people staring at me like I’m some kind of freak. Weird-ass eye colors run in the family though. Bro’s are orange. You really like them?”

You nod vigorously. “I love them, I think they’re amazing.” And you do, and you want to make sure he knows this.

He smiles a touch more. “Thanks.” That said he walks out of the bathroom, and you follow suit, trailing behind him as you head down to your dorm room. You put your things away and climb into bed, turning off the lamp; you are tired, you need to crash. There’s rustling from the other side of the room as he does likewise, then silence. Out of the quiet, his voice comes. “Thanks, John. For everything.”

You pfffft. “Don’t need to thank me, I’m just doing what bros do. I’d do anything to help you out.” It scares you how much you mean that.

He’s quiet for a while, then he chuckles softly. “It’s mutual, bro. It’s very mutual. I’m here for you no matter what.”

You smile quietly. Your mind is still a jumble of thoughts and feels and things that don’t make sense but right now you feel very at peace, and that peace lets you doze off without too much trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> Bastille -- "Pompeii"  
> Rob Thomas -- "Lonely No More"  
> OneRepublic -- "Counting Stars"
> 
> Bonus track:
> 
> U2 -- "With or Without You"
> 
> The soundtrack went through a number of iterations -- I started working on this fic WELL before Pompeii or Counting Stars came out, but I loved 'em so much I came back and rewrote this chapter to include them instead of my initial choices.
> 
> (I actually have a 'soundtrack' for this fic. It's burned on a CD and it lives in my car.)


	7. John: Get drafted.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dave has an issue and John doesn't have a clue.

One month to the national championships, and it seems like ages.

You make arrangements to miss a week of your classes, since Dr. Strider has already sorted out the travel business and you know exactly when you’re leaving and where you’re staying and so forth. You can’t stay with Dave; you’re in the same hotel, though, so that’s pretty close. You’ll have to be content with that and hope Dr. Strider doesn’t do weird things to you in your sleep. 

The month feels both very slow and very fast to you. On the one hand, you know it’s not enough time for them to polish things as much as they’d like. On the other, you feel like you’re currently engaged in a slow waltz with your roommate, dancing around and around a subject neither of you wants to talk about. You’re still entirely unsure of your feelings. He isn’t saying a word about his, if they even exist. Maybe they don’t exist…now there’s a horrid thought. Entirely possible, though.

You’ve taken to going to rehearsals with Dave. At this point the group is used to having you there; you just sit and do your homework while Dave does whatever it is Dave does. Periodically the group will ask your opinion on something, and you give it. It’s kind of nice when they do that. There’s some ribbing about Dave’s ‘boyfriend’ but Dave just shrugs it off, and you do too. You’re just his roommate, that’s all, and he likes having you along, and you like being along. This makes perfect sense to you. It’s a good place to do your homework, anyway; you like being surrounded by the music. They work hard, too. It’s refreshing to see that kind of effort put out for something. 

Eventually you note that you are joined by someone else; that silver-haired boy from the last concert. He’s quiet and even more studious than you, if that’s even possible, but you catch the faintest glimmer of what looks like a very dry and rather twisted sense of humor. He also chips in his two cents here and there, and from the sounds of things he’s rather a good musician in his own right so people listen. You don’t catch his name. A couple of times people call him “you” and that doesn’t make a damn lick of sense. He doesn’t say much, though, and you don’t want to interrupt rehearsal to talk to him, so your curiosity goes unsated.

One day you and Dave are in your dorm room when Dave abruptly turns and stares at you. You can almost see his eyes narrowing behind his shades before he speaks, abruptly. “So I’m a total fucking moron but what would you say to being my accompanist?”

You blink as you try to connect those two statements. “Say what?”

“I’m an idiot. You’ve been sitting right here this whole semester, I know damn well how good you are, why have I not asked you this before. I could use a good solid accompanist. Would you please play for me?” He’s almost entreating – well, as close to entreating as Dave Strider ever gets.

You think about it for a second. It’s a logical move. You can handle any piece of music he puts in front of you, easily. You already spend every waking moment together. Helping him practice and playing for competitions and recitals and the like sounds like a thing you would have no problem doing. “You bet, man. It’ll be fun.”

Dave’s lips curve up in that way that’s the equivalent of a broad smile. “Thanks, man. We’ll make beautiful music together.”

You scoff. It’s so ridiculously trite. It has to be ironic, there’s no way he’d use that phrase unless it was ironic. You’re getting used to the way he works by now. You two function almost like two halves of the same whole, doing just about everything together, practically anticipating each other’s sentences. It’s both fun and scary, that you’ve meshed as well as you do.

One day you come home to see him tapping a pen against a page in one of his myriad notebooks. You’ve noticed those; they look like regular spiral-bounds but they’re clothbound instead, and even you can tell the paper in them is far higher quality than your average Mead notebook. It’s whiter, smoother. He eventually puts pen to paper, and you see that he’s writing with a fountain pen; you’ve noticed this is a peculiarity of Dave’s, he writes in fountain pen rather than ballpoint if given the choice. His notes are also completely technicolored. The ink he’s using right now is really interesting; it shades, from almost black to a rose color. It’s fascinating. Even the notes he takes are more multidimensional than everyone else’s. 

You clear your throat to get his attention. “What are you working on?”

“Screenplay,” he answers without looking up from what he’s doing. “I’ve been working on it for years. Gonna shop it around when I’m done with school.”

“What’s it about?” you wonder.

“You know that blog I showed you? My webcomic?” He’d shown you Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff almost right away and eventually you ‘got’ its particular brand of absurdist humor. You nod. “It’s that. About that. I want to see it on the big screen.”

You cover your disbelief with a nod. “Well, if anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

He smirks, ever so slightly. “Thanks for the vote of confidence…damn. Can you hand me that roll of paper towels over there?” He’s putting his notebook aside and going for the plastic box while he talks. You look at him curiously, then realize that he’s got to refill his pen. He does so with a relative minimum of mess, and you look at him oddly.  
“Wouldn’t it be easier to use a ballpoint?” Seems like it would to you.

He snorts. “Loses all the artistry and character. If I’m gonna write, I like to look at what I’m writing.” 

You sneak a peek at his handwriting. It’s bold, the strokes almost calligraphic although the letters are formed like normal printing. It’s fascinating. You wonder if maybe this has something to do with the pen, then shrug. You’re thinking way too much about a pen.

“So there’s a dance coming up in the business building,” you say, after a long moment spent in thought.

Dave turns to look at you, raising an eyebrow over the edge of his shades. “Yeah?”

“So you going?” You’re not sure which answer you want to hear, honestly.

“Nah.” He turns back to his writing. “No date and I don’t go stag, that fucking sucks.”

“Oh.” You fidget for a bit, unsure of how to go on. “I’m not going either. I had one girl ask me but I said no.”

He pauses, then turns away from what he’s doing to look at you. “Why’d you do that?”

You rub your face. “Well, other than the fact that she’s kind of psycho…”

Dave snickers. “Oh god, that bad, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Christ. Yes, that bad. She tried to demand I move out and pay more attention to her than to you. I told her where to shove that.”

Dave’s smile twitches just a little bit bigger. “So you’re not leaving me? Good to know.”

“Oh fuck no, dude, I am not leaving you.” You make a negating motion with one hand. “It’d take wild fucking horses dragging me off to get me to leave you.” You pause for a second. It almost scares you, how much you mean that.

At that Dave puts his pen down and gets up, walking over to loom over where you’re laying on your bed. “You know that means you’re stuck with me, right?” He’s grinning, or at least doing that small little smile that’s the Strider equivalent of a broad grin.

You laugh and poke at his sides. “Yeah yeah, you should be grateful, I’m awesome.” He neatly dodges the attack, and the next thing you know he’s tickling you mercilessly. This is a problem because you are very, very ticklish. “Oh my GOD, Dave, stop! Stop stop stop holy shit oh my god stop hahahahahaha oh god you fucking suck stop make it stop!”   
He relents, but you find yourself looking into his eyes from very short range. He’s not wearing his shades. You can see everything he feels reflected in his eyes.

You forget to breathe.

~

Your name is Dave Strider and you are the biggest chickenshit this side of the Mississippi. 

Here you are, staring at the guy you’ve fallen head over heels for, within very easy range of kissing him silly, and you aren’t going to do it. You just aren’t. You have no idea if he’s gay or not, and kissing your best bro who is straight probably goes down in history as one of the dumbest ideas known to all mankind. All you can do is stand there, staring into those amazing blue eyes (you’ve never in all your life seen eyes that blue before, it’s practically inhuman), and trying to not emote all over your face.

You hover in that tableau for some time before you abruptly straighten up and head back over to your side of the room, going to grab your physical science textbook and a pad of paper. “I tell you, dude, they fucking pile on the homework just when you’ve got some kinda big extracurricular thing going on. It’s like they somehow psychically determine it, then set out to make your life fucking difficult as shit.” You’re rambling and you know it, but you’re trying to get your cool back and you’re not doing so great at it. You uncap your pen and start to take notes out of your book, listening as John pulls his own book out and starts to write. 

After a bit he looks over at you with a raised eyebrow. “Do you seriously do your homework in blue ink with gold sparkles?”

“Hey, man, blue ink with gold sparkles is fucking badass,” you counter, pointing your pen at him illustratively. He caught you doing up an ink review and taking pictures of the sheen on one particular ink, and he’s never let you forget it. “Besides, you have to hold the paper at an angle to see the sheen, and most teachers aren’t gonna do that. All they give a fuck about is whether it’s in blue or black, and they never said what KIND of blue.”

He rolls his eyes in exaggerated fashion. “You are such a weirdo, I do not understand your ink fetish.”

You pause before trying to explain it. “See, here’s the thing. Words mean shit, right? But how you write the words can mean just as much as the words themselves. There’s an artistry in writing; it’s fun to do, to see your handwriting turn into artwork.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy for a moment, then chuckles. “You’re so weird, Dave.”

You just wave a hand. “I know, I know, can’t resist the Strider swag, you should be so privileged to be in my presence constantly."

John scoffs at you. “Oh puh-lease. All that means is that I have to put up with your bullshit constantly.”

You pause, then give him a wry little smile. “You don’t mind though, do you?”

He pauses as well, then smiles in return. “Wouldn’t trade it in for anything.” 

You turn back to your studying with a lighter heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vacation: fastest way to fuck up anything even remotely resembling an update schedule ever.
> 
> Incidentally, has anyone else watched Attack on Titan? I got introduced to this and I am HOOKED. *runs off to write Reiner/Bertholdt and Erwin/Levi fanfic*


	8. John: Get psychoanalyzed.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John meets an old friend and gets put on the spot.

You are once again John Egbert and you are now trekking up the highway toward New York City in Bro’s car. This has already been the experience of a lifetime, although you aren’t sure if that’s in the good way or the bad. You’ve discovered that Bro has incredible – and incredibly broad – taste in music. So far you’ve had everything from David Guetta to the Rolling Stones to Mumford and Sons, and as you drive Bro actually gives you history and background about everything he plays. Clearly the man knows his music every bit as well as his younger brother does.

“Bro? If you like music so much…why didn’t you study that instead of robotics?” You have to know.

Bro snorts. “There’s plenty of jobs in my field, and when I was going to college I was young, single, and had a baby brother to raise. I went for the guaranteed paycheck.”

You can’t dispute the wisdom of this course of action. “So what was he like when he was little?”

There’s a quiet chuckle from Bro, like a rumbling in his chest. “Smart as shit, even as a little guy. Smart as shit and totally dedicated to music. He was fucking around with my turntables by the time he was six, writing his own raps by eight, and composing his own tracks by ten.” You can’t hide your amazement. You knew he was good, but you didn’t know he was that good. “He’s a genius, even if he acts like a fucking moron most of the time.” Bro slides a glance your way and smirks. “He speaks real highly of you.”

You blink, then blink again. “He…does?”

“Yup.” Bro makes sure you don’t miss your turn-off to the next highway. “Talks about you all the time. Can’t get through a convo without hearing John said this, or John did that.” He eyes you again, then smirks just a little bit more. “I’m pretty sure he’s got a thing for you, if you want my unvarnished opinion.”

You just sit there like a rock. Dave…has a thing for you? Really? He does? You try to squish down the butterflies that just erupted in your stomach. “Oh…really? You think?” Stupidest fucking statement ever but it was the first thing that you could come up with.

“How d’you feel about that?” Bro’s question puts you right on the spot, and you fidget all over the place for a bit before swallowing.

“I don’t know,” you say, truthfully. “I mean…I really don’t know. I’ve never…thought about guys like that before, but I…” Shit. Shit shit shit. You have to own up to it now, don’t you? He’s going to pry it out of you whether you like it or not. “…I think it might be mutual.”

“It’s okay to be confused, kid,” Bro says with a kind of rough sympathy. “Fuck knows I was. Dave was too but not that confused; he’s the kind of kid who knows what he is and what he wants and that’s that. But serious, it’s perfectly okay to be confused when this shit crops up for the first time.”

You pick out something in there and blink. “So wait, you’re…?”

“Uh-huh.” Bro shrugs, keeping his attention on his driving. “Didn’t realize it ‘til my junior year of high school. Figured it out, eventually. A whole lotta shit made sense at that point.” He snorts in amusement. “My sister gave me so much shit, you would not believe.”

“I bet.” You pause, then reprocess that statement. “Wait, Dave said you were all the family he had, he never said anything about a sister.”

“Half sister,” Bro clarifies. “Her name is Roxy; she’s my age. She stayed up here with her mom in New York; Dave and I grew up in Texas. Roxy got pregnant right around when Mom got pregnant with Dave; my niece Rose is a day younger than Davey is.”

Something about that rings a bell, although you snicker at ‘Davey’. “I know a Rose who lives in New York.”

You can’t see it but you can sense Bro’s eyes sliding sideways to look at you. “She got a last name? New York’s a big place.”

“Well yeah, that’s why I figure it just has to be a coincidence.” You shrug. “Lalonde. Rose Lalonde.”

There’s silence for a while, then Bro starts to chuckle, very softly. “Damn, son, you’re practically part of the family. Rose Lalonde is my niece.”

You manage, successfully, not to choke. “Really?! I’ve known Rose for years! Since we were like eleven or something!”

“Dave’s gonna shit himself when he finds out,” is Bro’s amused answer. “In fact, now that I think about it…have you ever met Rose in person?”

You shake your head. “No, I haven’t…” You trail off as you suddenly put two and two together and realize you’re driving to _New York City_ for this event. “Oh my god they’re coming, aren’t they.”

“Ayup.” Bro smirks. “Now aren’t you glad you came.”

For a chance to meet Rose, finally? Fuck yes you are. This gives you a totally new level of anticipation as you drive down the road toward your final destination.

~

New York City is fucking ENORMOUS.

That’s your initial impression as you drive through the streets of Manhattan, gaping at all the skyscrapers like some kind of country cousin. It’s not really your fault, though; before coming to college you’d never been off the West Coast, and Seattle is absolutely nothing like Manhattan. You’re used to Seattle’s one-way streets, relatively short buildings, and earthy-crunchy undertones. This is like stepping into bizarro world for you. While you’re plenty familiar with Pacific Northwestern urban life, this is making you feel like a complete backwoods hick. You get to the hotel you’re staying at and check in, then Bro makes a point of dragging your ass downstairs.

The Notes are already there and checked in, and about half the group is loitering around the lobby doing nothing in particular. A couple of the guys who are old enough to drink are sitting in the bar. You ignore them, though, because you spot Dave’s distinctive shock of white-blond hair. Bro walks over and flicks him on the ear to get his attention. “Come on, you little shit. Greek food awaits.” You watch as Dave instantly scrambles out of his seat to catch up with you. 

“Greek food?” you ask, peering at your roommate. He smirks just a touch.

“Hell yes. There’s this diner not far from here; it’s like all Greek all the time and it’s open 24/7. Best spanakopita ever. We’re meeting the girls there.” He pauses and looks a little sheepish. “Um. I never mentioned I have some family up here…”

You laugh outright. “It’s fine, man, it’s fine. Bro told me on the way here. I’ve known Rose for years, we dick around on Pesterchum all the time.” At this point he’s flat staring at you.

“No fucking way. You know my niece?” He’s clearly floored. You grin.

“Uh-huh! We met when we were like eleven or something like that.” The expression on his face is hilarious. The suspicious expression it shifts to is even funnier.

“Okay…you’re not, like…internet dating Rose or anything, are you?” You can tell he’s giving you the narrowed eyes from behind his shades.

You bust up laughing. “Oh my god no. Oh holy shit no. Come on, man, even if I liked her like that you know my equipment’s all wrong for her.” Rose came out to you when you were fourteen or so. She’d been kind of nervous, but you just said it was all good and made some stupid joke that had her threatening to throw things at you through the internet.

Dave clearly relaxes. “Okay good, cause that would’ve been way too weird even for me and I’ve seen some weird shit.”

You decide to challenge this. “What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever seen?”

His answer is prompt. “Bro has a side job. He runs a puppet porn website.”

You kind of blink a couple times. “…puppet…porn.”

“Yep.” Dave jams his hands into his pockets. “Plushrump.com. He’s been doing it for years. Makes fairly decent money. ‘S how he put himself through college. Smuppets made our world go round.” 

You have to ask. “So…did you, like…help with that stuff or something?”

There’s a moment of silence and then a smirk. “Fuck yes. Smuppet snuff films, man. There’s something fun as shit about trying to figure out how many ways you can destroy a smuppet. Like, we’d tie them to fireworks and shoot them off, or slice them up with swords, or we had a day where we planted a shitload of mines in a field and played smuppet toss until we got them to blow up…stuff like that.”

The more you hear about these Striders, the weirder they get.

\--

The diner is that kind of 24-hour joint that you just expect to find in New York City. Comfortable, lived-in, family-run, clearly a local institution. You don’t really pay much attention to the décor or the atmosphere, though, because you just got distracted by an elegant blonde young woman who’s just standing up to greet you. She sees Dave first, clearly, then focuses on you, then that serene expression turns into one of total surprise. “Wait…John?”

“Hi, Rose!” you chirp, happily. 

Just like that, you find yourself hugged to within an inch of your life before she lets you go. Rose is, apparently, a mighty hugger. “How did you meet the boys? I had no idea you were going to be here.”

“I room with Dave,” you explain, totally unable to stop the giant grin threatening to split your face in half. “He and Bro dragged me here for the finals and I didn’t realize you were coming until Bro told me.” This is seriously the best night of your life. You could not be happier right at this point in time if Nicolas Cage walked into the diner, came straight up to you, and asked you to be in his next film…wait, strike that, that’d be pretty fucking amazing.

Everyone settles down in a booth and food is ordered; Dave specifically orders a huge slab of spanakopita, and you get a gyro because it sounds good. You and Rose are chatting comfortably, like the old friends you are, and Dave gets in his comments here and there. The older of the two Lalonde girls, Roxy, is sort of half being held up by Dave; apparently she was already well into her wine by the time everyone showed up. Rose is remarkably tolerant of her mother’s drinking habits, you remember that now.

It’s a couple of hours later when Dave has headed out to the bathroom and Dirk has dragged Roxy off to get her an aspirin when you and Rose finally have a moment to yourselves. Rose sips her coffee – two sugars, three cream – and looks at you with a knowing expression in those violet eyes. “You aren’t just here because you’re Dave’s roommate, are you.” She makes it a statement rather than a question.

You successfully manage to not squeak, although you are quite sure you turn bright red. “Yeah, um, well. Still figuring things out but I really like him.” Wow do you sound bad right about now. 

Rose’s expression shifts minutely and you can see the hint of a smile hovering at the corners of her lips. “You like him quite a bit.” Again, a statement. This is when you remember that Rose is a psychology major and has been practicing her craft, as it were, for years already. You are being psychoanalyzed right now. You are the patient, it is you.

“Jesus, Rose.” You take your glasses off and rub your face briefly. “I don’t know how I feel, you know all that shit about me. But it feels pretty…well…yeah.” You can tell by the look on her face that you don’t need to go into detail; she knows exactly what you’re talking about.

“Find a way to tell him,” Rose suggests, which has you gaping at her. “I’m quite serious. I know Dave very well and I know that he will not make a move if he thinks he’s going to be rejected. So if you want anything to happen, you’re going to have to be the one to make the first move.”

You are now officially terrified.

“But Rose, I haven’t actually ever, like…dated anyone since Vriska and you know how that ended up.” You rub your face. That whole thing had been a huge debacle, since Vriska had ended up being…well. You can’t really come up with a way to describe her that isn’t peppered with creative cursing. That had not ended well in the least and you spent a lot of time spilling your guts to Rose about the relationship in general. At this point you’re pretty sure she knows everything there is to know about you.

“Trust me.” Rose looks like she’s about to say more but her expression suddenly shifts back to its usual serene slight smile, and by that you know that Dave is coming back from the bathroom and she’s clamming right the fuck up. Good call on her part.

You stay at the diner until the wee hours of the morning, laughing, eating enough Greek food to fuel all of Athens, and generally having a great time. By the end of the evening you feel so completely at home with the Strider-Lalonde crew that you can’t imagine not knowing them. This New York trip was clearly one of the better things to happen in your life.

Eventually, the yawns and the need to get up in the morning intervene and you finally break up the party so you can all go crash. Before you and the Striders vanish toward the car Rose catches your wrist, getting your attention. “Remember what I told you.”

You are not likely to forget.

However, this is not the time to go spilling your guts to your roommate. It’s late as hell, you’re tired as hell and you spent hours in a car and you’re stuffed full to the gills with wonderful food and what you want more than anything is a date with that hotel bed. So you file everything Rose told you into that little folder in your brain labeled with Dave’s name – it’s rather overstuffed with things about Dave at this point – and head back to the hotel, mentally telling yourself you’ll deal with it when you’re more conscious. 

Once back at the hotel Dave sort of half-waves, looking at both you and Bro. “Okay, bros, I’m gonna crash. Don’t you be doing the horizontal tango or anything tonight.” He gives his brother a ludicrously suspicious look and Bro just snorts and pats him on the back, hard enough to knock him off balance.

You make another note to not piss Bro off ever.

“Bigger than that, little man. Get some sleep.”

Dave scowls at the ‘little man’ label, but gives you both a peace sign and vanishes off toward the rest of the hotel. Bro, thankfully, does not engage you in conversation as you head up to your hotel room. You shower, brain fogged with weariness, but unable to completely dismiss Rose’s words.

“Find a way to tell him.”

Welp.

Now you have a project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might be a lapse in updates here for a while; I may or may not be dicking around with a SnK college AU (is that all I write, jesus fuck) focusing around Reiner/Bertholdt and Jean/Eren. 
> 
> Bless you all for putting up with me.
> 
> Also omfg 1200 hits and 95 kudos, seriously? I LOVE ALL OF YOU. /has never had this much attention for a fic before ever


	9. John: Go for it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the finals happen and John decides it's all or nothing.

It’s the night of the finals, and you are nervous as all fuck. You are more nervous than the people actually performing, you are fairly sure. You are in the lobby of the Lincoln Center, and you are surrounded by swarms of other people, both performers and not. Bro, Rose, and Roxy are already in the auditorium. You, on the other hand, are looking for Dave.

Rose’s words have been stuck in your mind ever since she said them. You have been trying and trying to come up with a good way of telling him, but every time you think you’ve got a good idea your brain conks out and you can’t seem to come up with anything coherent. So you’ve decided you’re just going to play it by ear. Spontaneity and all that jazz. 

The other groups interest you, mostly because they’re all so different. There’s a tremendous cross-section of people here. The group nearest you is being lectured by a faculty member who’s both very short and very fond of variants on the word ‘shit’, although you’re pretty sure one of their members is going to sweat himself into nervous exhaustion before they even get up on stage. Another group is currently dealing with an argument between two of its members, but from the tolerant looks around said argument you guess that this is something that happens all the time and it’s nothing to be concerned over.

Finally, after much gawking, you spot the Notes. Headphones (as you have mentally tabbed the redheaded singer) is giving everyone a pep talk; you catch Dave’s platinum-blond hair shining in the light like some kind of halo. God you have it bad, if you’re actually drawing those comparisons. You weave through the crowds and arrive just as Headphones is wrapping up his motivational speech. Before Dave can vanish into the crowd, you reach out and grab his hand. He starts in surprise, then looks down, then at you before smirking. “Well shit, Egbert. That’s one way to get my attention.”

“Oh, shut up,” you say, sounding embarrassed. “Listen, I wanted to find you before you went onstage to wish you good luck and break a leg and all that stuff.”

“Well, you found me.” Dave glances around, then looks at you. “So just so you know, last song of our set is dedicated to you and you’ll get it when you hear it.”

You have not heard their entire set; Dave specifically made sure you didn’t, because he wanted some of it to be a surprise, so you have no idea what the last song is. “Aw, Dave, I’m touched! I never knew you cared!”

A very odd expression crosses Dave’s face for a moment, but it’s gone before you can fully evaluate it. “Then I am doing one hell of a shitty job conveying the depth of my manly feelings.”

“No, actually, I think you’re doing a great job.” You decide, because you are currently high on adrenaline and nerves, that you are going to at least drop a very large hint. “Trust me, Dave. You’re doing a great job.” You step in a little closer, and see his eyes widen from behind his shades. Obviously you caught him off guard. “Now just go kick some ass, and come find me after you’re done, okay? I’ll save you a seat.”

Dave watches you quietly for a moment, and then smiles just a bit. Tiny bit. Not much but it’s genuine. “Gonna give me a kiss for good luck, there, Egbert, while you’re busy polishing my ego?” You can tell he’s being ironic, that he doesn’t in the least think you’re actually going to do it.

So while you’re still riding high on the rush of I-do-not-believe-I-am-doing-this, you stand on tiptoes and smooch him on the cheek.

Dear god you wish you could see his expression without the shades, because it seriously looks like you smacked him in the head with a two-by-four. You never thought you would see that poleaxed look on your too-suave roommate, ever, but there it is. Dave brings up one hand to cover the spot you smooched, staring at you in total disbelief and shock.

You just smile. “Kick some ass, see you in a bit,” you chirp, before heading off into the crowd and going to find your seat. You drop into the spot next to Rose, and try to will your heart to stop racing. (It’s ignoring you.)

“You look like you just did something major,” Rose mentions with quiet amusement.

“I may or may not have just smooched his cheek,” you admit, fidgeting with the cuff of your shirtsleeve.

Rose stares at you in shock. “You did what?”

“Well, you told me to find a way to tell him,” you say defensively.

“That wasn’t quite what I had in mind but it works,” she says, getting her serene mask back in place. You get the feeling she would say more, but the lights go down and the first group comes out to play.

You can tell instantly that the caliber of performer is much, much higher than you’ve seen to date. Before this the Notes have steamrollered their opposition; that’s not going to happen here. It’s going to be several groups before the Notes go on, so you’re listening with your newfound ear for a cappella appreciation and you must say you’re impressed. The genres are all over the place; you can hear some Beatles from one group, and Tegan and Sarah from another. You’re actually happy to hear that spread. It almost feels like an homage to the history of awesome music (frankly, you kind of want to smack the group that decided it’d be a good idea to do Bieber, but given that they’re hamming it up to no end and mocking the living daylights out of it you have to forgive them).

Your hands tighten convulsively on the armrests of your seat when the Notes take the stage. You don’t know exactly what their set will be, but you know it’s been designed to hit hard and fast and take no prisoners.

Which is exactly what they do.

They decide on a go-big-or-go-home approach and start off with Fall Out Boy, and good god is it amazing. The song’s been rearranged as a duet for Dave and Headphones, and the two of them have some pretty good rock wailing going on in there and the effect is fucking amazing. It’s a hell of a good way to start the show, and it sets the bar high. Really, REALLY high. 

The next song is Dave’s showcase, and this song you’ve heard before. “Some Nights” is one of those songs that can either be amazing or seriously suck depending on who’s singing it, because Nate Ruess has a ridiculous voice and it takes a lot to live up to it. Dave manages to land firmly on the side of ‘amazing’. The high point – you internally groan at your own pun – is when he hits the auto-tuned section, and you have no idea how in the hell he does it but he actually turns out a falsetto that sounds almost like it’s been auto-tuned. You are going to have to ask how he pulled that off, because it’s jawdropping. The applause is thunderous, with whoops and hollers and all kinds of noise behind it. You add yours to the mix, and you swear you can see Dave scanning the audience; you think he finds you and you wave and grin. You know you’re right when his lips quirk up into a smile. Good, he knows where you are now.

The set changes moods drastically for the next song, which is one you’d never even heard of before the Notes started working on it. You’d had to go google The Association to figure out who they were and when they performed, but “Cherish” is a beautiful song and it’s nice to throw it straight back to the 60s when a lot of other groups are keeping it ultra-modern. From there, the set shifts gears all over again to Imagine Dragons, and Headphones has the lead here. “Radioactive” is a great track, and they definitely do it justice. 

You can’t figure out what the final song is, at first. It starts off with a fairly quiet beat…and then Dave starts singing in a thick Scottish accent and you can’t help yourself. You absolutely lose it laughing when you realize they’re doing “500 Miles”, in all its Scottish glory. It takes you back to that first night you hung out with the group, when you and Dave were singing this at the top of your lungs on the way home, and you know why he dedicated this to you. You can’t stop the grin that’s threatening to split your face in half, and you can see him looking toward you when they’re done. You flash a double thumbs up, and he breaks his impassive façade to grin broadly in your direction. You wish he’d do that more, he has a gorgeous smile.

Once the Notes are done, they half-tumble into the audience to find the seats that were set aside for them; you managed – not at all subtly – to find a spot right next to said seats so you could sit with Dave. “So how’d it go?” he whispers breathlessly when everyone has piled into their spots to hear the rest of the groups perform. 

“You kicked so much ass,” you whisper back, grinning.

Dave gives you a smile…and then reaches over to take your hand. You note that his is shaking, and you decide to set his clearly overactive mind at ease by lacing your fingers through his and squeezing. “So much ass. If you don’t get a prize for that lead vocal they’re deaf,” you add with a smile.

“Fuck prizes. I think I got the one I want,” he murmurs back, and you turn a lovely shade of tomato red. Dave also does not relinquish your hand for the remainder of the night.

One by one, the other groups do their thing. One girl group drops some Little Mix on the place; another group takes it back to the early 90s with some Nelson (man, now there’s an underrated group if ever you heard one; more people need to appreciate Nelson). One group does a wicked good cover of “Thriller” and that one you worry about. They look like strong competition.

The rest of the groups do their very best, but in your mind the Notes took the cake with their set. They poured heart and soul into it, left everything on the stage, and the results made that obvious. You sit on the edge of your seat, holding your breath, all through the awards ceremony. To your delight, Dave takes the prize for best solo vocal; that auto-tuning apparently paid off. A couple more solo awards are given out, then…

…the crowd goes absolutely ballistic when the Notes take the whole thing.

There’s cheering, there’s whooping and hollering, and then all the groups sort of tumble into the audience to find the people most important to them. It takes a while for Dave to find you amidst all the mayhem, but when he does he walks over and almost literally sweeps you off your feet, hugging you tightly. “That was fucking unreal,” he admits when he finally lets go.”

“Unreal nothing, you won the solo prize! That’s awesome!” you gush at him, and have the reward of seeing him blush faintly.

“Aw, shit, that wasn’t anything special…” You get the feeling he would have said more, but he’s inundated by the rest of his family at that point and you have to stand back and let them smother him with sibling affection for a while. Which is fine, you kind of have to make that tradeoff and all that jazz. Bro ruffles his hair, Roxy hugs all over him in drunken fashion (Rose told you she’d already been through half a bottle of wine before they got there), and Rose kisses his cheek before sort of subtly steering him back toward you. As soon as he’s back at your side you feel a strong arm sliding around your waist. “So tell me something, Egbert. You’re not just yanking my chain with being all affectionate and shit, are you?” There’s a note of uncertainty in his voice you’ve never heard before, a bit of insecurity. 

Perversely, this just makes you smile more and wrap your own arms around your waist. “No. It took me a while but I figured out what I want, and what I want is you.”

“Jesus fuck.” Dave looks down at you with an unreadable expression, then abruptly breaks into a smile. It’s a sweet smile, and not a large one, but size doesn’t matter. You can see everything he’s been holding back in that smile. “Just for the record, John,” and you thrill a little bit because it’s the first time he’s actually used your first name, “this isn’t really the venue for this but I’m going to do it anyway.” 

And with that, he leans down and kisses you.

It’s not the most mindblowing of kisses. It’s short, it’s not some deep passionate thing, but you don’t care because it is perfect. When he pulls away he’s as flushed in the cheeks as you are, and smiling like an idiot. Which is fine, because you’re fairly certain you have a matching expression on your face. “You have no fucking clue how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmurs. 

“Nah, I kind of have a clue but I couldn’t get my head out of my ass,” you say with a sheepish sort of laugh. It feels like the world only consists of you two; the rest of the auditorium may as well not exist. 

“I wouldn’t say that. This shit ain’t easy to deal with. But…fuck. I am one happy fucking bastard right now, just so you know.” Only Dave would be able to say something like that and have it come off good.

You snicker, in spite of yourself. “You’re always a fucking bastard, it’s part of your charm.”

“Shut it, Egbert.” He squeezes you around the waist and grins. “Now let’s get going. The family, she waits.”

You walk off with your arm around Dave and his arm around you, and your heart feels like it’s about to burst right out of your chest.

You are fairly sure it gets no better than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Notes' set:
> 
> Fall Out Boy -- "My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark"  
> fun. -- "Some Nights"  
> The Association -- "Cherish"  
> Imagine Dragons -- "Radioactive"  
> The Proclaimers -- "500 Miles (I'm Gonna Be)"
> 
> Everyone else:  
> Tegan and Sara -- "Closer"  
> The Beatles -- "Paperback Writer"  
> Little Mix -- "Wings"  
> Nelson "(Can't Live Without Your) Love and Affection" (side note: this is one of my favorite songs in the history of ever)
> 
> And that cover of "Thriller"? [Do enjoy.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xmWaxXO5Pw8)
> 
> Also, on principle, I refuse to actively mention a given Bieber song. Because Bieber.
> 
> We're almost done, kiddos!


End file.
